


Icicles

by Sleepless_Malice



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bittersweet Ending, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Snow, Temperature Play, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:07:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27575608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: One winter day, Ñolofinwë stumbles across Nelyafinwë and Findekáno using the small hut in the forest. Instead of leaving, he lingers and watches them.—written for the Tolkien Secret Santa Advent Calendar, Day 4
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2020 ADVENT CALENDAR





	Icicles

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to AdmirableMonster for beta reading this story

**Icicles**

*****

Ñolofinwë is surprised to see a fire burning in the wooden hut, located in the forest outside of Tirion. Apart from Turcafinwë and his hunters, the hut is rarely used, if at all. It’s too small to host a great hunting party, not exactly well equipped either: a bed, an open hearth, and a chair, that’s all there is.

For Ñolofinwë it has always been enough. The place is tranquil, especially in winter when the wind howls outside. There is so much snow this year that the hut is almost snowed-in, with long icicles growing from the roof in front of the door. 

He unsaddles his horse near-by, fresh snow crunching below his riding boots. He’s curious who has taken a temporary residence inside, nothing else. There are some other places he can retreat to in order to calm himself down from yet another argument with Fëanáro. The hot springs a bit further up or his private library he has built over the years, for the hut isn’t his own property but free to use by whoever likes.

The glow of the fire that falls through the window colors the snow orange and Ñolofinwë peaks inside. What he sees makes him stumble backward, takes his breath away. It’s Nelyafinwë and Findekáno inside, but not sitting in front of the fire with a book. They are sprawled out across the small bed in a way that leaves little to the imagination.

Despite knowing he should not, Ñolofinwë lingers. Lingers when Nelyafinwë’s laughter breaks through the silence and Findekáno’s soft chuckles blend with it shortly after. Ñolofinwë knows he should take his leave when pretense drops like clothes, but he does not. He stays next to the small window, back pressed against the wall, and watches. Watches how lips slide across sweat-slick skin; how icicles follow the path of Findekáno’s mouth down Nelyafinwë chest.

Yes, perhaps, they shouldn’t be doing what they are; shouldn’t be doing it where someone can simply stumble upon them, but none of that can serve as an excuse for Ñolofinwë. He’s not forced to drink in the sight they present, isn’t forced to remain where he is as if he’s rooted to the ground.

Nelyafinwë struggles in Findekáno’s hold, but not in earnest. He could free himself easily out of Findekáno’s grip around his wrists, given his strength. But Nelyafinwë doesn’t. Instead, he watches with curious eyes how Findekáno puts the icicle between his lips to continue the journey of his mouth, how his hips buck at the sensation of ice against burning skin. Not that his skin isn’t burning equally.

Ñolofinwë knows it’s wrong to watch them. Nothing of it is meant for him to see. And yet he stays. Stays, when Nelyafinwë moans Findekáno’s name; when Findekáno’s head dips lower.

What is even more wrong than to stay is the effect their display has on Ñolofinwë: the gooseflesh that spreads across his skin, how he grows hard in his breeches—harder actually, for he long has.

Shouldn’t he be shocked to see them like this—condemn what they do?

Why does he react the way he does?

Ñolofinwë has long known that the relationship between Nelyafinwë and Findekáno became more than friendship a while ago. As of now, he has never witnessed it nor has Findekáno ever confided in him. He figured it out soon enough himself.

Nothing has ever prepared him for seeing them with his own eyes.

They are beautiful together, skin and hair glowing in the golden flames of the fire, one highlighting the beauty of the other. Almost as if they have arranged themselves to be discovered…

But that is nonsense. Complete and utter nonsense. Findekáno does not know that he sometimes ventures into the forest to escape the duties at his father’s court; to take a bath in the stream near-by or read in the cozy hut now used by them. Not that he wants to be discovered in the first place. It’s a coincidence, and nothing else.

Nelyafinwë giggles again, fingers threading into Findekáno hair. The icicle in Findekáno’s mouth has long melted away.

“Your lips are just as cold,” Nelyafinwë says, breathless.

Ñolofinwë gasps outside by how filthy his nephew’s voice sounds, hand flying to his mouth to muffle his own sounds. To be discovered by them now would be a nightmare. What he has done today will become his best-harbored secret for all eternity.

“Maybe that has been my very intention, Maitimo,” Findekáno responds, teasing.

He never knew that his son could sound like that; should have never known it, in fact. He casts one final glance inside the hut before he takes his leave after having stayed for far too long.

Only when Ñolofinwë rides back to Tirion, snowflakes swirling around him, it dawns on him. It’s true that he has never told Findekáno about the hut, but he once remarked on it towards Nelyafinwë. He stated that he likes to come here to calm down after another argument between Fëanáro and himself, especially during winter to enjoy the eerie quiet.

Still, Ñolofinwë refuses the very thought. It’s a coincidence, or so he tells himself. For his own peace of mind.

And yet, his mind won’t shut up about any of it…

What if it wasn’t a coincidence?

Not that he’ll ever pursue to find an answer to that nagging question…

*

Decades later, Ñolofinwë sees Findekáno sit amidst giant ice cubes on the dark beach, washed ashore from the outskirts of the Grinding Ice.

He knows what his son thinks when he caresses the edges of the shimmering cubes almost lovingly; knows what kind of memories overwhelm him night after night when he cries himself into sleep.

The Grinding Ice has changed them all, in many ways. But no other seems to suffer like Findekáno; from the loss and from the betrayal, as if the everlasting coldness has quenched the burning flame in his heart there once were.


End file.
